Echo
by Abigail-Nicole
Summary: Legend comes with this island, with this trio of islands, legend into myth into fact into fantasy until everything is forgotten and new things come; but the secret is known and kept and it will never be forgotten.


**Echo**

11-22-03, 6:15pm  
Pokemon the Movie 2000 

**Summary: Legend comes with this island, with this trio of islands, legend into myth into fact into fantasy until everything is forgotten and new things come; but the secret is known and kept and it will never be forgotten.**

Disclaimer: Don't own Pokemon, wouldn't want to. I don't even like it, but I liked the Orange Islands and wanted to do something with them--and plot bunnies don't discriminate between what I like and what I don't. 

* * *

"You are dust, and when you die, you will return to the dust."  
-Genesis 3:19b, _New Century Version_

I clamber quickly over the rocks, jagged and crumbling, every sense alert. There is no sound but silence--the faint echo of waves on the shore, far below, the faint inaudible sad music that haunts this place, and the soft whisper of the distance. 

Legend comes with this island, with this trio of islands, legend into myth into fact into fantasy until everything is forgotten and new things come. They used to call this the cradle of the world, the beginning of the oceans, which is now only mentioned to lure tourists. Maybe it is true, but like the history, it has been forgotten. 

I don't know why I come here. There is nothing to see: a circle of rocks on a hill, a patch of flowers, old marking that are unreadable, a broken wreck of machinery with beautiful angels painted on it. I pause in the middle of the circle, and again I don't know what I'm waiting for and looking for. 

The tales are old, now. They say a hero made from ash saved the world here, aided by the Silver Beast. They say a girl made of ocean mist saved him from the raging sea, and that another girl made of a song played the long-forgotten melody to summen and control the Silver Beast. But even as I stand here, the legends echoing throughout this place, they are hard pressed to answer questions, answer why. I turn to stare at the long-rusted machine, and in my curiosity I find my feet tracing the path towards it again. 

Maybe, once, there was a hero made from ash, who stood tall, eyes blazing, before the three raging beasts. Maybe there was a girl goddess made from ocean mist, rising from the waves in a blue halo to save her love from the perilious clutches of the deep. Maybe there was a girl formed from a song, who kept the Silver Beast, who summoned it and controlled it with her magical melody and enchantments. Maybe they were myths, maybe they were gods, maybe they were real people who's role was exaggerated in the telling--maybe they never existed. 

But this island has history, history written into the tablets my feet cross over, tablets weathered by air and sea to illegibility, tablets that once prophecised and now record history, history worn down to myth and fantasy again. Now the three beasts are rarely seen and some deny their existance; now the Silver Beast is said to be a myth even by scientists, and hardly any know of it. But this is my home, this is my history, and I know of it. I pause at the edge of the stones, looking back at the words before I turn, walking once more towards the most mysterious piece of the puzzle. 

I enter this echo of what was a machine, a work of art like no other, and my mind is doubtful. Broken shards of glass still lie here, some windows unbroken, covered with dirt. None come here anymore; no one really ever did. They say it's haunted down in the villiage, and though they treat it with the respect of a graveyard, they never come; for it _is_ a graveyard--a graveyard of the past, of the legends, of the dreams that they used to have, of the innocence of the world.

I catch sight of a brown-haired, blue-eyed girl in the window, and I stare into my reflection, hands pressed against the dirty glass. My eyes unfocus and beside me in the window I see a shadow of a figure shorter than me, with a small yellow creature by his side, who turns his back to me. I refocus my eyes and turn sharply, but it is only the mystery that haunts this place, legend's ghost pulling the patterns of time again. 

I stare upward at the ceiling painted with angels and wonder why anyone would do such a thing--what was this machine? Why was it destroyed? How? Why did anyone bother to paint angels on the ceiling? They are exposed to the open air and have been for centuries, but still they are clear, beautiful, smiling secretively; if they could talk, what could they tell me about this place? 

As I stare upward, I think that maybe legend isn't as mythical as it is made out to be. Maybe, instead of a hero made of ash, there was just a frightened boy, who could not let the world be destroyed while he had a chance to stop it. Maybe the legendary goddess made of ocean mist was just a girl, in love and afraid to say it, who fought to ocean for him. Maybe the legendary song-girl was just a girl who took a trembling breath before blowing a note of a song she couldn't be sure of. Maybe they were not very different from me. 

I walk outside, turning away from the broken machinery, pausing in the midst of the flowers, red and pink and white, a flower that grows nowhere else in the world. It is for this flower that I am named: Soulrose. On a curious sudden feeling, I close my eyes, spreading my arms wide, feeling the wind whistle through my hair and fingers, whipping my dress around my legs, and suddenly I lower my arms and listen. There is one note on the breeze, sad and beautiful, twisting among the crashing waves, and I open my eyes, looking up into the dark night sky, sprinkled with stars. 

There is a great silver bird in the sky, and I hold my breath, and all is silent. I look it straight in the eye, my heart quivering--it is near enough to reach out and touch, but I dare not move at all. It shines soft silver in the starlight, and I look it straight in the eye, its dark, mysterious midnight blue gaze capturing mine. Slowly, it bows its head to me, the long silver neck curving gracefully, majestically, as delicate and beautiful as a feather floating on the wind. 

Slowly, I lift my hand, inches away from it, but it is gone, soaring out before diving down into the ocean, never to be seen again. 

But this place holds no more mystery for me. The echoes of the past still ring, but the secret of it is known and kept, and it will never be forgotten----

until the world turns to dust----

for as long as we both shall live. 


End file.
